Warhammer Cultivation: Cultivating the Tao Te Ching in the 40K Universe

"You try to define and control everything with your laws because deep down you fear all the unknown that you cannot control."

"And I try to use my harmony to grow naturally like a forest, to embrace and adapt to everything. Because I know that true strength is not about eliminating all the unknown, but about coexisting with the unknown."

These descriptions of "fortress" and "forest" stirred a wave of thought in Lane Aljonson's green, star-like eyes.

He thought of the dark forest of Caliban, filled with deadly beasts and endless dangers.

There, the knightly order he established relied on its fortress-like discipline and laws to ultimately win a place for humanity to survive. Hector's words undoubtedly touched upon the deep-seated beliefs within him, beliefs that were ingrained in his very being.

But he also wouldn't refute it, or rather, he wouldn't bother arguing with this mortal.

“Well said, mortal.” After a long silence, the lion’s cold voice rang out again. “Your ‘forest’ is indeed beautiful. But you seem to have forgotten that in this dark universe where there is only war, what is first ignited and most easily burned to ashes is always the forest, not the fortress.”

“Therefore,” his gaze turned cold and sharp again, “I cannot gamble the security of the Empire on your philosophy, which is full of possibilities yet also vague and unrealistic.”

He slowly raised his hand, clad in a golden power gauntlet, a hand capable of easily crushing a Space Marine's skull.

"As the First Son, it is my inescapable responsibility to protect the Empire from any potential threats. So hand over all your secrets, Hector Kane. Bring the 'Intercepting Cult Academy' under the legal supervision of my First Legion. I will safeguard this overly dangerous truth for you and for the Empire."

"Don't even think about influencing my other brothers. If you want to contact other Primarchs, you need my approval first."

“Otherwise,” his voice held an undeniable chill, like an ultimatum, “I will personally draw my sword and carry out the most thorough…”

"--'prune'."

Chapter 169 The Painting Academy as a Prison

When Ryan Aljonson's ultimatum-like words struck the frozen air of Wenxinzhai like a cold hammer, an invisible yet far more dangerous duel than any physical war had begun.

Hector could clearly "see" that as the lion's last syllable fell, a massive torrent of "law" and "judgment," powerful enough to distort reality, crashed down on his seemingly fragile dojo like an invisible battering ram.

This almost materialized will of the Primarch, amplified by psychic energy, formed a colossal wave.

It interrogates and questions, trying to find any flaws in Hector's Daoist heart, which is full of "harmony" and "balance," that do not conform to the "laws" of the empire.

Any psionicist whose heart wavers even slightly will have all their secrets and pretenses stripped away instantly under the crushing force of this will, as if their soul were being laid bare before the most severe judge.

Behind Hector, the 117 newly recruited "Qi Refiners" were struck as if by lightning by the aftershocks of this will. Their fragile understanding of "Dao" that they had just established was teetering on the brink of collapse in the face of this larger and unquestionable "Li".

However, Hector Kane, at the eye of the storm, remained standing quietly.

He didn't retreat, didn't defend himself, and didn't even blink. He simply let that scrutinizing gaze, which was enough to expose any lie, pass through his body and illuminate his soul.

Then, Ryan Aljonsen, the first son of the Lion Emperor of Caliban, saw it.

He saw an "empty space".

A void that was deeper and purer than any interstellar vacuum he had ever seen.

His invincible will to judge, capable of piercing through any disguise, was swallowed up the moment he entered this "emptiness," like light entering an ultimate black hole, without causing the slightest ripple or receiving any response.

He felt as if he were using all his strength to push open a door that didn't exist. All his power, doubt, and sense of justice had fallen into emptiness.

This is the true power of the "Golden Elixir Without Leaks".

When Hector absorbed all his "reflections" in the subspace into himself, and when his "Tao" became a perfect, self-sustaining universe, he possessed the ability to transcend most of the "causality" of this universe. His existence no longer needed to be defined by any external "laws."

A look of barely concealed surprise crossed Ryan Aljonson's usually stern face. He had spent his life battling "chaos," witnessing the most cunning demons interrogate the most stubborn heretics. He firmly believed that every being had its "flaw."

But this mortal before me... has no flaws.

Because he seemed to "not exist" at all.

This uncontrollable "unknown," this undefinable "nothingness," made this suspicious Primarch, who regarded "controlling everything" as his lifelong creed, feel more vigilant than ever before. He subconsciously wanted to activate the power greatsword and use the purest and most irrefutable physical means to test the true nature of this "anomaly" before him.

But the instant he gripped his sword hilt, the power gauntlets of the twelve Deathwing Knights behind him simultaneously hummed as they activated, the muzzles of their Stormblast guns flashing a deadly red light. The air seemed to be sucked out; a trial was about to turn into an execution.

It was precisely at this critical moment—

"That's enough, Ryan."

A similarly authoritative voice slowly drifted from the entrance of Wenxinzhai.

A golden figure, radiating a holy glow, had silently appeared there. He wore a work of art-like golden power armor, and the pair of enormous, snow-white wings on his back were slightly unfurled, tinging the cold, judgmental gray sky with a touch of warm hope.

Saint Gilles arrived. He was not alone; Marcus Aurelius, the instructor of the Imperial Guard, followed behind him.

“My brother,” Saint Gilles slowly stepped forward, his sky-blue eyes filled with respect for his elder brother, yet also with an undeniable firmness, “this is the Inquiry Hall, a special zone of imperial thought personally protected by the Regent. Here, any form of force is a desecration of reason itself.”

His gaze shifted to Hector, his eyes filled with gratitude and trust.

“Dean Kane is my friend and the hope of the Empire. I will never allow anyone to harm him under any pretext.”

Ryan Aljonson's green, star-like eyes were fixed on Saint Gilles, his gaze filled with the complex emotions of an older brother for his younger brother.

“You have been deceived by him, Saint Gilles.” His voice was cold and harsh. “Your excessive kindness will blind you to the real danger hidden beneath the surface of harmony.”

“Perhaps, Ryan.” Saint Gilles’s address became more intimate as he smiled and shook his head. “But I also worry that your heavy sense of responsibility might cause you to miss the hope hidden behind the unknown. I am here not only to protect Dean Kane, but also to protect you and my brother from being bound by your own laws.”

Three completely different wills spread and collided in this small garden.

Ryan's laws are like a cold steel dome constructed of countless logics and rules, attempting to bring everything under its absolute order.

Saint Gilles' compassion transforms into a warm and inclusive golden ocean, gently yet firmly resisting the invasion of steel.

Hector's harmony is like the invisible void itself that holds the sky and the sea, omnipresent yet without contention or scrambling, encompassing both extreme yang forces within its stillness and nothingness.

At that moment, he, a mere mortal, was not at all inferior to these two most powerful Primarchs.

Finally, Ryan Aljonsen slowly loosened his grip on the sword hilt.

He knew he couldn't act here. He couldn't openly defy the Imperial Regent's will in front of another Primarch and a Guards instructor. That was against his "law."

After a long while, he finally managed to squeeze out those two words through gritted teeth.

He gave Hector a deep look, his gaze like that of the most composed hunter marking the most dangerous prey that he could not yet catch.

Then he turned around and gave his final, unquestionable command to the twelve Deathwing knights behind him, who were still maintaining perfect battle formation.

"let's go."

He didn't say another word, but silently led his guards, who were like a mobile fortress, out of the Wenxinzhai.

However, just as he was about to step out of that moon-white jade gate, he suddenly stopped.

He didn't turn around, but slowly said in his judgmental voice:

"To ensure the absolute safety of Dean Kane and his 'Academy,' which is of vital importance to the Empire."

"I, Ryan Eljonsson, in the name of the First Legion Primarch, have decided to permanently station my most elite 'Deathwing' First Squadron here."

"They will be responsible for 'protecting' everything here. Protecting it from any...unnecessary 'spying'."

Having said that, he didn't linger any longer, and his steel-like figure completely disappeared outside the "dojo".

Once again, the entire Wenxinzhai was quiet again.

But everyone knew that from this moment on, this hanging garden, this Eden of thought, had been completely locked up by an invisible yet indestructible cage.

Chapter 170: Midnight Lords

The tranquility of Wenxinzhai is a "living" tranquility, but also a tranquility under surveillance.

Since the Lion of Caliban, Lane Aljonsen, left his elite Deathwing Squadron One to "protect" this place after that unpleasant "investigation," this floating garden in the Eastern District 7 of the Imperial Palace has become a completely isolated island filled with the beauty of contradictions and harmony.

The twelve Deathwing Knights, clad in ancient Terminator power armor, stood silently outside the only gate of the Wenxinzhai, constructed of moon-white jade, like twelve immovable war statues carved from dark green basalt and obsidian.

They never stepped into the garden, nor did they ever speak to anyone.

They stood silently, like twelve unyielding walls of sighs, completely isolating Wenxinzhai from the outside world, a steel jungle filled with power and intrigue.

Their very existence is a cold, unquestionable "reason" filled with absolute order.

Under their tangible field of willpower, any psionic fluctuations that attempt to probe this place, any unauthorized physical entity, will be mercilessly crushed by that steel-gray aura filled with "vigilance" and "suspicion".

Outside the fortress, there was absolute stillness.

Inside the fortress, however, there was a vibrant life.

Every morning, when the chief student Karen's silent "morning bell," like the gentlest tide, punctually sweeps across every corner of the Inquiry Hall, the 117 newly recruited "Qi Refiners" sit cross-legged on the open-air platform of the "God's Platform," which is covered with fine white sand. Facing the simulated, soft morning light, they begin their first daily lesson—"Inner Observation."

Their Dao hearts were no longer as fragile as they once were. The crushing force of the lion's will on the day it descended, a force capable of shattering any psychic, was, for them, torture, yet also a most brutal trial of tempering. The souls that survived that storm were like steel forged through countless hammer blows, becoming more resilient and purer.

Under the personal guidance of Hector, the Golden Core Realm "Dao Master," their cultivation progressed rapidly.

Although the true essence within their bodies was still weak, it was becoming increasingly refined, like molten steel that had been refined a hundred times. It flowed slowly through the twelve "bioenergy field resonance channels," nourishing their bodies that had been riddled with holes due to the loss of control over their spiritual energy.

These two diametrically opposed "orders" form a strange and tense standoff inside and outside this small rooftop garden. On one side is a steel fortress representing absolute "stillness" and "rejection"; on the other side is a harmonious forest representing "life" and "inclusivity".

The two are clearly distinct, yet strangely, they maintain a delicate balance.

However, neither Deathwing, who was a "fortress," nor the Jie Sect Academy, which was a "forest," knew this.

This silence, constructed by law, is an embodiment of order. But on the other side of the galaxy, in the eternal night, another soul is desperately yearning for a different kind of true silence that can end everything.

Nostramo.

This hive world, long consumed by its own sins and eternally shrouded in darkness, is the homeworld of the Eighth Legion's "Midnight Lords," and their Primarch, Conrad Coz's private hell.

At this moment, at the very top of that magnificent fortress called the "Tower of Terror," built from the bones of countless criminals and solidified fear, a thin, hunched figure, like a gargoyle, huddled on a chair carved from cold, unpolished obsidian that was more of an instrument of torture than a throne.

He is Conrad Coates.

He wasn't wearing the terrifying midnight blue power armor adorned with lightning and death runes. He was only wearing a tattered black leather coat, stained with dried blood—whether from enemies or himself, it was hard to tell.

His skin, stained with years of darkness, was a sickly, deathly pale. His black hair, like a tangled mass of snakes, was greasy and disheveled, covering his face, which should have been as divine as all his brothers.

He is not like a Primarch.

He was more like a madman being devoured alive by the nightmares within his own heart.

His body was trembling uncontrollably and violently. It wasn't from the cold, but from the pain.

A never-ending pain that transcends the boundaries of body and soul.

His talent, his innate and terrifying ability to see through the fog of time and foresee the future, at this moment, became the most vicious curse upon him.

Reality was nowhere in front of him.

Only "future".

Scenes of the future, filled with blood and fire and shrouded in dark shadows, flashed wildly and uncontrollably in his mind's sea of ​​consciousness, like the sharpest shards of glass!

He "saw" it!

He saw his most beloved brother, Horus the Warlord, with a twisted, treacherous, and ecstatic grin on his handsome face, which resembled that of the sun god, as he plunged a demonic sword tempered with the power of Nurgle into the chest of another brother!

He "heard" it!

He heard, from within the magnificent imperial palace of Terra, the mournful cry of his angelic brother, Saint Gilles, filled with endless sorrow and despair, uttered before his death!

He "smelled" it!

He could smell the nauseating stench emanating from the hundreds of thousands of once-loyal Space Marines, their flesh torn apart by their brothers' bombs and chainswords, on the black sand sea scorched by the flames of betrayal on Istvan V!

He "senses" it!

He felt that he, the midnight ghost who should have been the embodiment of "justice," was ultimately pierced through the heart by an assassin sent by his most beloved father, like livestock in a slaughterhouse!

These... are not illusions.

These are the "truths".

It is the imminent, undeniable, and already predetermined by fate... the truth!

The reality changes constantly with the different choices made at key junctures in the universe!

This never-ending symphony of the future, filled with bloodshed and betrayal, utterly shattered his already fragile sanity, which had been weakened by growing up alone in the abyss of Nostromona's sins.

He is the only Primarch whose prophetic abilities may surpass those of Sangilius.

But he was also the first pathetic man driven mad by his own prophecy.

“No…no…no!!!”

Chapter 171 The Art of Throwing Stones

He let out a roar that sounded inhuman, filled with extreme pain! He stretched out his hands, which had become like withered claws from long-term self-torture, his nails digging deep into his temples, trying to cover up the wailing of his soul with physical pain.

Cold sweat mingled with warm blood, sliding down his pale face and dripping onto the dried, dark bloodstains on the armrest of the throne. But he couldn't feel it; all he could feel was the endless screams of the future echoing in his mind.

However, it was precisely in this absolute darkness constructed of endless pain and madness that an unprecedented "strange sound," belonging to no known future, appeared without warning in his already shattered senses.